


Thaw

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: AND RIGHTLY SO, Arthur and John are a little closer in age, Bi!Abigail, Chapter 1 Spoilers, Dirty Talk, Everyone hates Micah, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt!John, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, bi!john, f/m - Freeform, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-16 04:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16947204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: John’s fever has broken after his run-in with the wolves. His physical condition is improving, albeit very slowly. The Spring seems to have finally arrived, and with it, comes the thaw. Arthur and John never were too good at talking about...things. Arthur only seems to have gotten awful good at ignoring it.





	1. Nothing Ordinary Amongst Outlaws

**Author's Note:**

> This installment has multiple chapters and will have some explicit content. I have made Arthur and John a little closer in age just to get the timeline to be a little less squiffy. Tags and ratings will change as time goes on. I’ll be keeping each installment with spoilers clearly marked. I’m personally still enjoying Chapter 2. It’s a wonderful game and I’m ready to see this fandom grow.
> 
> ***
> 
> Series title inspired by the song The Past Six Years by Deaf Havana.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s fever has broken after his run-in with the wolves. His physical condition is improving, albeit very slowly. The Spring seems to have finally arrived, and with it, comes the thaw. Arthur and John never were too good at talking about...things. Arthur only seems to have gotten awful good at ignoring it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment has multiple chapters and will have some explicit content. I have made Arthur and John a little closer in age just to get the timeline to be a little less squiffy. Tags and ratings will change as time goes on. I’ll be keeping each installment with spoilers clearly marked. I’m personally still enjoying Chapter 2. It’s a wonderful game and I’m ready to see this fandom grow.
> 
> ***
> 
> Series title inspired by the song The Past Six Years by Deaf Havana

Water was dripping from the icicles that hung over the sides of the cabins. The elusive sun had finally broken the cloud cover. It was blinding with all the snow. But things certainly felt a bit warmer.

A bit. 

Arthur shivered and sighed smoke. He sucked on the end of a cigarette, taking a step closer to the small fire. Watch shifts was something he’d grown up with. It could be boring work, but it had to be done. He didn’t mind so much.

Especially now. Micah just happened to be on watch as well, on the other end of the abandoned mining town they’d set up camp in. Normally, he wasn’t ever real pleased to see the mean bastard. He had never liked him. No one did. He didn’t know why Dutch kept him on. He was reckless, cruel, and he had a mouth too big for his size.

Arthur certainly had been further repelled by the man after they’d found Miss Adler, locked in her own cellar. She’d been wild with rage and terror. Her nightdress had been in tatters and she’d more than likely spent days as the damn O’Driscolls plaything. Anyone could plainly see that she was hurting and afraid. 

And Micah had played around with her. Egging her on, dodging around anything she threw and making like he was gonna grab at her. The way a cat might play with an injured mouse. The way those O’Driscolls must have treated her after they killed her husband and set up camp in her own home. 

Arthur didn’t like it. Not one bit. That aside, he only had to wait a bit longer before getting some satisfaction over the long, chilly morning.

“I’ll take over, Arthur,”

He looked over and saw Lenny approaching with a rifle in his hands. He liked Lenny. He was a good kid, really starting to learn to be one of the gang. Arthur smirked and took the cigarette from his mouth, “Hold on, Lenny. You’ll like this.” 

“What?” 

Arthur chuckled, replacing the cigarette, still looking towards Micah who wasn’t even paying attention. “Just watch.” The kid finally followed Arthur’s gaze and he frowned in distaste when he saw Micah.

Nobody liked him. That went double for Tilly, Lenny, Javier and Charles. You could only take so much of a man giving you hardship over the colour of your skin. Something that weren’t no one’s fault. Something that shouldn’t make one person lesser than another. 

The man in question was leaning up against what was left of a small barn smoking a cigarette. He was bundled up pretty good, his hat low on his head. He probably couldn’t even feel the water dripping off the back of the brim. Arthur had waited for over an hour. His patience was about to pay off.

Lenny shook his head, and stepped closer. “Arthur, what is,”

“Shh.” 

And then it happened. The ice and slush hanging over the edge of the barn had finally melted just enough in the sun. It slid off the building piece by piece, and landed right on top of Micah’s head. 

It hit the man with a satisfying crunch and splash, putting out his cigarette and bringing him to the ground. It set off a string of loud curses and foul phrases that only a person like Micah could conjure. 

It also set off the laughter that had been building up inside Arthur since he’d first noticed the oncoming avalanche. Lenny was right there with him. Micah shouted profanities at the two of them, wetly climbing back to his feet. 

Arthur chortled, took the cigarette from his mouth and offered it to Lenny. He took it, still giggling. “You’ve given me a gift, Arthur Morgan. I’ve never been so happy to see Spring thaw.” 

They laughed another round at that. Micah was really getting agitated, now. He was stomping towards the two of them, his fists clenched and his face red. 

Javier, bless him, chose that moment to step out for his watch. “Hey, Micah, I’ll take over.” 

That brought him to a stop, just a few feet away from Arthur who had taken a calculated step between him and Lenny. He stared Micah in the eyes, wondering if it would come to blows. He’d been waiting for the opportunity. Arthur was a patient man, but Micah was the type to really try a man’s patience. 

Javier took the momentary pause to notice that Micah was covered in slush and snow. “What happened to you?” They couldn’t help it. Really. Arthur and Lenny roared with laughter. 

Despite his frustration, Micah seemed to be put in his place. Instead of starting a fight, as he clearly wanted to, he stomped past them into the cabin where most of the other men were. And where there was a fair amount of whiskey. 

Arthur knew he’d probably have to deal with the consequences later on. Micah was a petty man. He didn’t take well to being ridiculed. For now though, Arthur was content to let him stew. 

He clapped Lenny, still breathless with laughter on the back. “Stay warm,” he chuckled and started towards the main cabin. When he reached the door, Lenny was just beginning to explain to Javier what had happened.

Arthur had done well to avoid the main cabin over the past few days. After spending some time playing nursemaid to a fevered John Marston, he’d seen fit to make himself scarce. After learning what he did, he hadn’t been too keen to see Abigail. 

He’d heard from Hosea that John’s fever had gone down and he was fairly lucid when he was awake. He hoped that being “fairly lucid” meant something along the lines of not calling out Arthur’s name in his sleep. 

Their relationship had always been sort of...complicated. Most of the camp was accustomed to their friendly camaraderie in one moment and their threats of violence in the next. That was normal enough. You put a bunch of outlaws together, big, trigger-happy, and with a lower regard for the law than common folk, you’re bound to see it. Nothing ordinary amongst folk like them. 

The _real_ out of the ordinary things? They didn’t talk to much about them. 

Arthur hoped that this would be one of those things. Something that didn’t invite further conversations, or worse, questions. He was already pushing his way through the door, closing it behind him.

It was warmer. They’d managed to clear out the old fire place. The chimney had been so clogged full of debris that it had been too dangerous to light a fire there before. Now, flames burned calmly against the stone. The broken windows had been boarded up too, keeping out most of the snow and wind. Any more improvements and the main cabin was in danger of being cozy.

It was in the middle of the day. Most folks were doing what chores they could do. Keeping watch, digging out the wagons, tending the horses, washing dishes, cooking, staying warm. The Reverend however, was sitting by the cot at the end of the room, holding a bottle of whiskey.

“I thought you was readin’ him his last rites! Now I see you’re introducing him to your...other passion.” Arthur drawled as he approached. 

That got the Reverend’s hackles raised. He pushed himself to his wobbly feet, “I’ll mind you to show me some respect, Mr. Morgan.” He spoke clearly for someone who spent most of his time drinking. And shortly. If Arthur didn’t know the man, he might have mistaken his tone for real anger. 

But Arthur did know him, and he was harmless. “Mind away, Reverend,” Arthur said, watching the older man stumble away. Finally, he looked down at John. 

He still looked an awful mess. Only two blankets were laid over him now, the previous pile having been re-disbursed at the fall of his fever. What could be seen of his face was still pretty red and swollen. His hair was dirty, clinging to his head in places and to the pillow in greasy locks. Sweat still shined at his throat, dampening the low collar of his union suit. His visible eye was open, looking up at Arthur. Looking relieved to see him. Looking a little warm from the Reverand’s whiskey.

“You still here, then?” Arthur asked, sitting down in the familiar, creaky chair the Reverend had vacated. 

John took a deep laboured breath and looked up at the ceiling, “I owe ya.”

Arthur hummed an affirmative, resting his elbows against his knees. “And you’ll pay me...but for the moment, just rest.” 

John frowned, the hand settled on his chest clenched into a weak fist, “Seems all I can do is rest.” 

“Not two days ago, you were delirious with fever. That ain’t rest.” Arthur grunted, rolling his eyes. He wondered briefly if the man remembered any of it. The fever. The way he’d thrashed about. The way he’d called weakly out for Arthur. The way he’d taken a hold of Arthur’s wrist...and held on.

“You’re not going anywhere fast with your leg being the way it is, anyways. We need you at your best. Thaw’s startin’, and we’ll be heading out any day now. So, ‘til you find yourself at your best, just shut up.” 

John chuckled, “Always inspirin’, Arthur.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

John just sort of looked at him then. More often than not, he had to remind himself that Arthur didn’t think too highly of himself. He wanted to give the man a good shove right then. Before he could, a shudder ran up his spine, and he coughed. 

With a sigh, Arthur took the edge of the blanket and pulled it further up John’s chest. Before John could reach for it, Arthur had already picked up the tin mug of water. He scooted the chair closer to help John drink.

“So a small avalanche fell off the barn right on Micah’s fat head,” he grunted, trying to ignore the thick air between them. It wasn’t intimate. It was just one man helping another man out. An ill and tipsy man at that. At least that’s what he told himself. 

John let his head fall back into the pillows with a pained laugh. “Sorry I missed it,” John giggled tiredly, reaching up to absently scratch at his face. Arthur grabbed his hand before he could, not in favor of watching him pull open his stitches. Again. “Don’t do that,” he grunted. The two men paused, looking at each other. The visible brown eye seemed to darken. His dry lips parted slightly. His two smaller fingers gently squeezed Arthur’s thumb. “Arthur, I,”

The door was thrown open, “Arthur!”

He quickly yanked his hand away from John’s and turned to look over his shoulder. Dutch was striding into the cabin, tracking snow in behind him. The large roll of paper that they’d taken from the O’Driscoll’s camp was waving back and forth in his hand. Arthur sat straighter, looking up at Dutch. “I think it’s time for the train,” he said, confirming that robbery and dreams were a little more than just talk now. 

“You want me t’come?” John interjected, his voice cracking pathetically as he did.

Ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous, and Arthur was about to say as much but Dutch beat him to it. “Of course I do but,” he huffed in exasperation, gesturing at him, “look atcha.” 

In response, John waved a hand with a snort, “I was always ugly, Dutch.” Then the idiot started turning onto his side, straining like he was about to get up. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Lie still, son!” Dutch scolded as Arthur pushed him firmly down to lie on his back. He went easy, too easy. Normally, John would be chomping at the bit to get a chance at some good robbin’. Especially with something as good as this. But he laid back down, his eye losing focus for a moment. Probably made himself dizzy. 

The door opened again, and in came Abigail and Jack. Dutch greeted them both politely, taking a step to one side. Arthur watched her approach and stood politely out of the way. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he definitely didn’t miss the wary glance she cast his way. Most people sort of looked at him like that, but Abigail was a bit more personable with hers. It wasn’t a suspicious glance, or a disdainful glance. More so one of worry, perhaps. 

She knew logically that he would never hurt her or Jack. There was a reason why the boy called him “Uncle Arthur.” He provided for them and checked up on them whenever he could usually. Hell, he’d made sure that they were well-fed and taken care of after John had disappeared for a year. Most of the time, she was a pretty good woman. She was beautiful, cunning, observant, kind, but there were times where she could be kind of...cruel. Arthur wasn’t sure if she deserved better than the gang or if she fit right in. 

“The boy wanted t’see ya, John.” She said, casting a cool gaze over the man in the cot. Jack stepped closer, wringing his hat in his little hands. It was the first time he’d seen him awake in days. He looked solemn, worried, perhaps afraid to see his father in such a way. He’d been handed off to Arthur when the fever was at its worst. And Arthur had comforted the boy as he’d cried, having seen John in the depths of his delirium. 

John didn’t miss the way Jack looked at him. He sounded disappointed when he next spoke, “Well, he’s seen me now...or what’s left of me.” He heaved a sigh at the ceiling before he finally looked at her. “What about you?” He hated showing any weakness in front of anyone, let alone Abigail and Jack.

“Guess I was hopin’ to see a corpse.” She said down her nose at him.

And there was that cruelty. Arthur didn’t often understand the relationship that Abigail and John had. They were sort of stuck with each other. They didn’t exactly like one another, but they sure didn’t hate each other. Still, Arthur had seen the way she acted and the way she spoke when John wasn’t around. She had begged Arthur to go and find him. She had to love him at least a little. He’d hurt her though. And since then, she wasn’t willing to give up any face. Arthur supposed he couldn’t blame her.

John was unfazed at her biting remark and scoffed. “Bide your time. You’ll see plenty o’them.” He settled further into the cot, adjusting the pillow under his head. 

“You’re a rotten man, John Marston!” Abigail turned on her heel, and strode out of the cabin with Jack on her heels. “He is an idiot, Abigail!” Dutch said slowly and clearly. “We all know it!” Some sort of attempt to placate the woman and remind any who could hear of the obvious. 

No one would argue with him there, not even John. “Now, railway men!” Dutch continued, striding after her. Arthur supposed that was his signal to follow. 

“Arthur.”

He paused and looked back at the cot. John looked a little more put out than he had a moment ago. He was just the same as Abigail. Neither would give the other the satisfaction of seeing how they really made the other feel. He looked miserable, opening his mouth to speak but no words came. 

“You rest up. You’ll be out with us again before you know it.” Arthur reassured him, knowing that he wasn’t too keen on being left behind, again. 

“I know, it’s just that...please be careful.” John murmured, closing his fingers around the hem of Arthur’s coat. 

The door closed behind Dutch, “Bill! Now you ride ahead and set the charge at the water tower just before the tunnel.” Arthur tugged his coat loose, pretending not to have seen the pleading look in John’s eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and/or a kudos! Love hearing from you!


	2. Without Anger or Disgust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang is preparing to head down from the mountains. Away from the cold, and back to warmth. Abigail and John find themselves alone for a spell. She has something to say. John finds he has something to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some f/m sexual content between Abigail and John. Honestly, it kinda took a turn I wasn’t initially expecting. I had to add another chapter because of this one. 
> 
> It was partially inspired by a game-related argument I had with a friend. They had initially said something along the lines of: “John probably doesn’t want to sleep with her because she’s no good at it.” To which I replied: “Au contraire, mon ami. Abigail was a prostitute. She’s done shit John hasn’t even dreamt of. He could stand to learn a few things...hm.”
> 
> And now there’s an unexpected middle chapter. 
> 
> All installments with spoilers, no matter how minor, are clearly marked. I haven’t played in a week so I’m still moseying around chapter 2.

“Come on, John. You gotta wake up.” 

It was Abigail’s voice. 

“Whuh?” John rasped, coughing to clear his throat. 

“Wake up, the men just got back,” she said. He could feel her hand at his shoulder. “Dutch says we’re leaving at first light.” John peeled open his uncovered eye, and looked up at her. “They’re back? They okay?”

Abigail shrugged, “Seemed alright. Could hear them grumblin’ some about things not going according to plan.” 

“Is Arthur okay?” He asked tentatively. 

Abigail paused as she took hold of the edge of the blanket. “He ain’t back yet. Dutch said he was taking care of the train.” John frowned, considering her answer. Dutch was leaving an awful lot of the dirty work to Arthur since he’d come back. He dutifully held his tongue about it.

In the meantime, Abigail started pulling back the blanket, “God, you smell.” He scoffed at her grimace, “You lay in this bed for days, sweatin’ off a fever. See what you smell like.” 

“Charming.” Abigail muttered, taking a hold of his arms, minding the wrapped bullet hole in his forearm from Blackwater. He winced, groaning, as she pulled him up to sit, and helped him get his socked feet on the floor. She held him by the shoulders, offering support while he got his bearings. 

Frowning, she gently touched the unscathed side of his face, “Lord, you look awful.” 

He shifted his gaze from the floor to her eyes. Abigail hadn’t shown him much affection since arriving in Colter. Hell, she didn’t particularly show affection. Not anymore. Not after what he did. Then again, was there ever a softness between them beforehand? Maybe a little. 

When he’d first met her, he’d paid for his time. And he was still paying for it.

But that wasn’t fair. Their banter was fun sometimes. He knew that he could do little to please her. So she picked at him, insulted him, and he bore it. He didn’t mind. He bore it from everyone. He knew he wasn’t the brightest. You didn’t have to be when your life was mostly spent on the run. He wouldn’t know what to do with a proper education if it had been handed to him on a silver platter. 

Their relationship was what it was. He had a responsibility to her and to Jack. It honestly wasn’t too much more than that most days. Sure, he liked her well enough, she sometimes tolerated him. Very, very, _very_ occasionally, there was sex. It was pretty good. But it wasn’t real intimate. Not anymore. It never exactly was before. Maybe a bit. 

He had only ever been real intimate with Arthur. 

Just then, Abigail leaned in and kissed him. He gave a start when she slipped her tongue into his mouth. He was still weak, so it was easy for her to make him breathless. 

She pulled away after a long moment, looking into his visible eye. It betrayed his fatigue, his interest, and a question. 

“What was that for?” He asked quietly, even though no one else was in the main cabin. 

She shrugged, moved away slightly to fetch some clean bandages for his leg. She held her skirts to one side and sat carefully in the chair beside the cot. John let her undo the dirty bandages around his thigh, wincing as he lifted it. He could tell she had something to say. He waited, hissing as she poured whiskey over his torn flesh. 

After cleaning the wound, she began to wrap it in clean bandages. It was the last of them, so she hoped that wherever they were heading had a town nearby where Miss Grimshaw could resupply. She took in a deep breath, strengthening her resolve. 

“You called out for Arthur in your sleep, you know,” She said, getting straight to the point, not looking up at John as she worked. She felt him stiffen under her ministrations, his hands clenched on the edge of the cot. It was a brief movement, and then he was soft and relaxed again. 

“Did I?” He asked, watching her carefully. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Yes. When you were real delirious.” 

John hummed noncommittally, but said nothing else. He waited. 

She tied off the bandages and looked up at him, searching his face. For anything. Waiting as well. For a long moment, it seemed neither would give an inch. But more was said between them in that moment than they’d ever spoken aloud. 

He made no excuses or denials. John wasn’t the type. For all he was, he wasn’t much of a liar. 

Abigail finally got to her feet and leaned over to fetch his shirt. “It explains some things, really.”

John furrowed his brow at her, starting to feel defensive, “Yeah? What’s that?” “Well, apart from ruttin’, you never really seemed genuinely interested in women.” She answered plainly. “Less so than most cowpokes at least.” 

That started another pause. She’d said it. She’d actually said it. It wasn’t accompanied by an insult, threat or anything dark. It was just quiet honesty. She didn’t even look upset. Only subdued.

John bit down on his lip.

“C’mon, let’s get you dressed. Hosea was sayin’ it would be a long ride. Don’t need you catchin’ your death.” She said, holding out his shirt. 

He took it from her, a little too quickly. He didn’t know why, but he felt cowed, berated, and a little scared. He’d never talked about it out loud before. He’d sure as hell never heard anyone talk about it without it being accompanied by disgust and disgrace. 

How could she be talking about it so casually? 

As John did up the buttons, he stared at her. Wanting her to say more. Wanting to hear it spoken aloud again. Spoken aloud with so little concern. As if discussing the weather, or the colour of someone’s hair. Like something completely out of anyone’s control. Something unaccompanied by anger or disgust.

“Abigail,” he tried, doing up the last button. She handed him his coat and settled down on the floor in front of him to get his boots on. “Abigail, I don’t understand.” 

She stuffed his left foot into a boot, and scoffed up at him. “It ain’t as unnatural as people think. The work I used to do? There’s a lot of fellers like you, John. Lady folk too.”

He stared at her, mouth hanging open a little. She had done what he had wanted, but he still couldn’t believe it. He knew that there were probably other men like him. Sean had once told him about a man he’d lived near back in Ireland, and from the way he’d talked about him...they’d maybe been a bit more than friends. 

And then there was Arthur. He’d called it “youthful foolishness.”

_But if grown men did it? And women too? How did that work? _He wondered. Probably not too different than some of the things Abigail had shown him how to do in order to please her.__

__

__

“Did you…?” 

“With women? Of course.” She said, getting his other boot on. “Not anymore, because...well…”

John looked away, feeling a little red. “I know we...we ain’t, but I...that is, I uh,” 

Abigail ignored him and interrupted, “Have you and Arthur,”

John cut in before she could get near to the end of that sentence, “No! Not for a real long time. No.”

“What did you two do? The last time you did, I mean?”

“What d’ya wanna know that for?” John asked, swallowing hard. She shook her head up at him with a sigh, “Just curious, I guess. I can tell you want to.” 

It was too much now. Far too much. “Abigail, hold on. I ain’t accustomed to this.” In return she smirked, “I’ve known you to be many things. But there are two things you certainly ain’t: shy and a gentleman.” 

“You haven’t had a kind word for me in some time.” John weakly rasped. 

Abigail considered that. She knew it was true. “And I don’t have one for you now, John Marston. But it sure ain’t because you fancy menfolk.”

She tucked a few stray locks of hair behind her ears and then climbed up to her knees. She placed one hand on his good leg and the other over his groin. He tensed under her touch, but said nothing as she squeezed him. “It ain’t because you want Arthur to touch you like this.” 

He stifled a groan as she deftly stroked him through his trousers. “ _This_ , I understand, John. It ain’t your fault. I’ve seen what a man can do to another. I’ve helped make men feel like that.”

John swallowed hard, gasping as she undid his flies. He reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, looking over her head toward the door. “Abigail, he warned, voice stifled and weak with pleasure. 

“Did he ever touch you like this?” She asked, leaning close to his face. She used both hands now. One stroking up and down his shaft while the other reached lower to rub at his taint. His breathing hitched, biting down on a cry.

“Ever touch him like this?”

No, John hadn’t. 

But Arthur had touched him way down there once. And that was just because at the time, John had guided his hand lower. They’d cleaned each other’s rifles plenty of times before that point, sure. Just never really...well, they didn’t know what they were doing. 

Nevertheless it was still one of John’s most precious memories. He often revisited that night, trying to remember the sounds of surprised pleasure Arthur had released when he’d pushed inside of him. The exact way he’d gasped, and the short puffs of breath he’d shuddered through. 

It had hurt, John remembered. It was difficult, dry, and his body was tense. But once or twice it felt really, really good. So good that he saw stars. Still, it had hurt. He didn’t think ‘til it was too late that something slick might have eased the way, or something better than spit at least. 

_“Want me t’stop? We shouldn’t,”_

_“No, no, don’t stop. Please.”_

_The noises Arthur had let out had John refusing him to stop. He wanted to try. He wanted him. But after what felt like only a few moments, and also like yet hours, Arthur stilled._

_“Yer bleedin’,” he grunted softly, worried._

They’d never talked about it.

John whimpered, pressing his face into Abigail’s hair. He held onto her shoulders, trying to keep himself upright. 

“You want him. Want him to touch you like this.” Her fingers drifted lower and lower with each pass, closer and closer to his hole. She held his prick a little tighter in the other hand, stroking him faster. 

“Abigail,” he warned, his stomach clenching, and the muscles in his thighs shaking with built up tension. Her touch became more insistent yet. 

“Get yourself a pot of petroleum. There’re things men don’t even know ‘bout their own bodies,” she murmured, kissing his jaw. John couldn’t take it anymore. He clenched his teeth, and groaned shakily as he let go. 

Abigail held him through the waves. Kept him upright as he grew dizzy with pleasure and the throbbing pain in his leg. Kissed him. Tucked him back into his trousers and did them up for him. 

She placed her hand on the unscathed side of his face again. He peeled open his visible eye, meeting her gaze. “Gotta be real careful, John. You can’t get something like that from a man that don’t want it. Arthur Morgan might hurt you.” 

She kissed him once more upon his bruised mouth before climbing to her feet. He silently took his coat when held it out to him again. He rested it in his lap, watching as she packed up things around the main cabin. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and put a small block of wood into the fireplace.

It appeared that she had gone back to ignoring him, leaving him with his thoughts.

_Shit…_

The mining town grew busy with the hustle and bustle of folding up camp. After the train robbery, folks weren’t exactly eager to stay. Then again, with all of the bitter cold and snow, no one was sad to be leaving the place anyways. 

John rested a little longer. When next he was woken up, morning light was shining in the cabin. Uncle and Abigail were there.

“C’mon there, Johnny boy. Looks like you’re in the last round of cargo.” Uncle said. Abigail said nothing, but gently wrapped her scarf around his neck.

With their support under each of his arms he slowly and very gingerly limped outside. John winced against the direct sunlight, shining off of the snow. It was still so cold. 

“This’ll be the most you’ve moved in a while, son.” Uncle remarked.

“So don’t go fainting, you’re heavy,” Abigail added. 

John did his best. They moved through the snow towards the wagons. Uncle hadn’t been fooling, he was one of the last pieces of the camp to load up. Stars danced in his eyes as he fought off a wave of nausea. 

He heard Dutch’s voice. Looking over, he found him talking to Hosea and Arthur. “He’s back,” he rasped weakly, being led over to a wagon on which Javier was waiting. 

“How you doin’, there John?” 

“Been better.” He groaned as they turned him around. “Easy with his leg,” Abigail reminded them as they dragged him up into the wagon, and laid him down. He was thankful for the pile of dry canvas under his head. He was still seeing stars and his injuries stung in the cold air.

Javier patted his shoulder, _“Estarás bien, amigo.”_

When he hopped out, Uncle helped Abigail climb in. He groaned in relief when a blanket was draped over him. A gentle, gloved hand moved some of his hair away from the corner of his mouth. 

“You gonna be alright, Miss Abigail?” Uncle asked.

“I’ll ride with him. Ain’t like he’s gonna be doin’ much foolish talkin’ considerin’ he’s barely shook the fever.”

“M’right here,” John grunted indignantly. 

And then they were moving. He spent most of it huddled under the blanket, just trying to just sleep. Abigail didn’t speak to him, but he occasionally felt her brush a stray lock of hair back. Or readjust his blanket. She’d been right though, he didn’t talk. He was too busy trying not to pick apart what they’d done before leaving the mining town.

He’d certainly gained some new perspective at the very least. She’d chewed him up before after flirting or looking at other women. Not so much about the flirting, but more that he was an intolerable idiot and entirely ridiculous.

Abigail hadn’t really seemed jealous of he and Arthur. Or what her assumptions were about he and Arthur. The worst thing she’d said was that final warning.

_“You can’t get something like that from a man that don’t want it. Arthur Morgan might hurt you.”_

Aside from that, he hadn’t received a blessing per sè, but it had sounded close to it. 

The wagon train stopped to make camp that night. Things got a little hazy there. John was having trouble staying awake and couldn’t quite understand when anything was said to him. He hadn’t the stomach to eat as he’d rocked with the wagon all day. Abigail had disappeared, possibly to tend to Jack. 

In the mean time, someone else had taken pity on his lethargic state. He was watered and fed something salty from a can. He didn’t know what it was. Tasted off. But he was hungry.

“Chew, you idiot. It’s like you’re a damn child, I swear.” Came a familiar drawl. Arthur was there. John breathed his name, sliding out of focus again. 

The next morning saw them on the move again. He was alone this time. He thought perhaps Abigail had checked up on him before going back to Jack. But he wasn’t sure. 

He spent their travels slipping in and out of sleep. Pine trees lessened a bit and John could see leafy branches occasionally hanging over the trails of their travels from out the back of the wagon whenever he had the strength to look. The sound of horses, clanking of equipment and the gang calling back and forth to each other accompanied his day.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally stopped. 

“C’mon, John,” Came Uncle’s voice.

Hosea’s voice asked, “How’s he doin’?” 

“I’m fine,” John said indignantly, huffing that he was being talked about like he wasn’t even there. Again. Spots danced over his eyes, and he suddenly found himself being pulled so he was sitting up in the back of the wagon. He grunted, breathing through the dizziness. His mouth tasted awful. He was too hot. He was thirsty, and he was very hungry. 

Hosea came closer and started to open up John’s coat. He sighed, resting his head against the side of the wagon. It was warm here. And sunny. Definitely sunny. There were trees off one way, and misty sky in the other. The wagons were spread out around camp, and everyone was working hard, pitching canvas, or moving supplies.

“Alright, John?” He was asked by Hosea. It felt like he’d had this conversation a few times with people. He just didn’t quite remember. 

“Sort of. Hungry, thirsty. Feelin’ weak as a calf,” He answered, looking at Hosea. “We here?” The old man nodded with a smile, “Welcome to Horseshoe Overlook, son.” 

“There he is, ole Rip Van Winkle himself!”

John lifted his head and looked towards Arthur as he approached. His blue coat was undone in the warmth. His hat was tipped lower against the afternoon light. 

“Who?” John asked. Arthur rolled his eyes at him. Swallowing hard, John tried real hard not to think about how Abigail had touched him yesterday morning, asking about him and Arthur. 

“It’s an old Irving story.” Hosea provided.

“From a book. But you wouldn’t know nothin’ ‘bout that.” Arthur prodded, amused. John licked his dry lips before shooting back, “Considerin’ you two taught me how to read, I’d say that’s a failure of your own.”

Hosea chuckled. Arthur grunted, settling a hand on his belt. He looked John up and down. He still didn’t look too good. He spent the majority of the journey sleeping. He was pale and red at the same time. He caught the man eyeing his canteen. Taking pity on him, he handed it over.

“Thanks,” John rasped, taking a long, long draught. Uncle looked at Arthur hopefully, “Could use some help gettin’ him to his tent, if’n you don’t mind.” Hosea gave him a nudge, and Arthur sighed again. “I ‘spose. C’mon, Marston.” 

He took his canteen back and helped John out of the wagon. He ignored how John clenched his coat when his arm was draped around his shoulders. “Thanks,” he murmured softly. 

“Could use that payment right about now,” Arthur grumbled. But there wasn’t any real bite to it. Hosea followed as they limped John through camp, following Uncle. John’s tent was up, and the cot was even put together. Relief flooded him. His cot wasn’t in the best of condition. But it was softer and a whole hell of a lot more stable than a bumpy, swaying wagon. 

They set him down to sit on the cot. John hissed as he adjusted his leg. Uncle ducked back out of the tent, “I’ll go get that blanket, son. Not sure where any of your bedding is at the moment.” 

Leaning his elbows onto his knees, John reached to absently scratch at his face. Arthur caught his hand and pulled it away, “Quit that.” He let go quickly, and gave John’s shoulder a nudge, “You’ll get infection again. Plus you’ll make yourself a whole lot uglier than you already are.”

“M’the very picture of pretty, Arthur Morgan,” John snorted and groaned as he moved to lay down. Arthur leaned down and helped get his leg up onto the cot, his touch gentle. Feeling dizzy and nauseous with hunger, John groaned, “Gettin’ real tired of lyin’ around.” 

“Just rest, son. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.” Hosea said. It sounded like he truly believed it too. He used to fancy talk any dandy under the table, but he always sounded genuine to John. It gave him hope. 

“There you are!” Came Dutch’s booming voice from outside. “You weren’t wrong, Hosea! This place is perfect!” 

Hosea looked over his shoulder and answered, “I hope so!” before walking away out of sight. Before following Hosea to go speak with Dutch, Arthur looked down at John. 

In return, John gave a nod and waved him off with a hand. “Thanks again.”

“Yer welcome. I’ll uh, I’ll find you somethin’ to eat in a bit.” Arthur said with a touch of warmth that John hadn’t heard a while. Then he ducked out of the tent and walked off to join Dutch and Hosea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and/or kudos! Love to hear from you!


	3. A New Moment of Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang has made it to Horshoe Overlook and they’re settling in. Arthur is perturbed by his inability to avoid taking care of John. John is close to taking matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter in this part of the series. The next installment will be posted soon. 
> 
> I’ve sucked it up and let myself move on to Chapter 3 in gameplay. As always, any installments with spoilers will be clearly marked.
> 
> This chapter mostly contains fluffy angst and mutual pining...but it does end with some explicit content.

Arthur sat on his cot and stretched with a groan. His back hurt from driving a wagon for the last two days. He may have made it worse hauling oats, grain, and hay and putting up hitching posts. It was work that had to be done. He was thankful that the women had gone about pitching the tents and such. 

Miss Grimshaw had always told him never to let a skirt fool him. Women were just as powerful as men were, if not more. He’d certainly never want to be on the wrong end of Susan Grimshaw’s temper while she was holding a stake hammer.

But of course they would set him up right next to John fucking Marston. It made strategic sense, at least. Circle most of the wagons for cover, have all the canvas in the middle and keep the ammunition close at hand. And he sure had a lot of ammunition.

Arthur heaved a tired sigh and lit a cigarette. His stomach gurgled in protest at its emptiness. Pearson had said that they needed food. He didn’t have many canned goods left. The afternoon was fading quickly into evening. They had two, maybe three hours of light left.

He looked at his rifle he’d propped against the wagon. There’d been signs of movement and the definitive gait of deer down below the overlook. It was possible that he could go hunting and bring something back before dark.

There was also the option of going to Valentine to see if there was a butcher. In a cattle town, there had to be a butcher. But purchased meat was often expensive, and they had a lot of mouths to feed. 

He’d split that wretched can of salted offal with John Marston last night when he was barely conscious. Granted, it was salty, canned entrails so Arthur hadn’t been exactly keen to eat it all anyways. Abigail had already shared what she had with Jack. Arthur had had absolutely no intention of climbing into that wagon.

But he had done it anyway. 

A frustrated cloud of smoke left him as he shoved himself to his feet. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he glanced around for Charles. He found him by the horses, with a bow slung over his shoulder. 

“Guess you had the same idea,” Arthur said, walking over to him. Charles paused as he tugged on the cinch of his saddle on his horse. He eyed the rifle hanging off Arthur’s shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. 

With a sigh, Arthur slid the rifle into the boot hanging from the brown and black Tennessee Walker he’d escaped from Blackwater on. He picked up the bow and slung it around his torso. 

The man in question mounted up. “Do you remember how to use that?” Arthur chuckled, climbing onto his horse. “I’m hungry enough to remember. If we don’t get something before dark, I might eat it, string and all.” 

Charles huffed in amusement, “If I weren’t as hungry, I would have liked to see you try.”

***

Hunting bow wasn’t on the menu that evening, it turned out. But venison sure as hell was. 

As night fell, smells of Pearson’s stew filled the camp. The meat from the two does Arthur and Charles had brought back would last them a couple of days. He’d also seen skittering rabbits and a flick of turkeys nearby. The area was teeming with wildlife. Charles had even shown him wild carrots and thyme. Who knew what else the valley had to offer. 

The stew certainly had an aroma to it other than meat. The camp was pleased. 

_“I’ll find you somethin’ to eat in a bit.”_

Arthur wanted to kick himself. As soon as the stew was served up, Abigail tended herself and to Jack. He knew the boy wasn’t fond of venison, or put on that he wasn’t, but it was what they had. Abigail had to watch him intently to make sure he would eat it. 

That, of course, left John Marston in his tent, going hungry. _Don’t do it_ , he told himself. He picked up two spoons and filled two tin bowls. Don’t do it, he warned himself. _The idiot’ll get the wrong impression…_

Arthur walked over to John’s tent.There was a faint light from a lantern inside. “Marston?”

“Y-yeah?” came the weak response. 

_Shit…_

“Got some stew for ya here.” Arthur grunted, perturbed with himself. 

“Oh. C’mon in.” Too late to turn back, Arthur ducked inside. 

John was lying on his cot, obviously having been sleeping. He still looked tired despite all of the sleeping he’d been doing lately. Even when a fever broke, it could still leave a person bedridden for weeks. From what he could see under the bandages, his face were still red, less swollen though. There was a little bit of dried blood under the edge of the bandages.

“What did I tell you about scratchin’ at your face?” Arthur grumbled, setting one of the bowls down on the crate where the lantern sat beside the cot. 

John looked away, and started pushing himself up to sit. Arthur reached over to help, but he held up a hand. “I can get my ownself upright.” 

Arthur scoffed and nudged a stool over to the side of the cot. John looked surprised as he finally sat up. “You’re gonna stay?” 

Pausing, Arthur looked John in the eye, “You want me to leave?” He didn’t know why he’d moved the stool over like he was about to make himself comfortable. He hadn’t intended to stay. He hadn’t intended to bring him food when Abigail certainly would have after making sure Jack ate. He hadn’t intended to climb into that damn wagon and spoon feed a half-gone Marston half of his own supper. 

John shook his head, “No.” 

Arthur sat down, leaned an elbow on one knee and dug his spoon around in his stew. John picked up the bowl that he’d brought and began to eat. The two of them pointedly did not look at one another. 

“Who went huntin’?” John asked, feeling awkward and incapable of silence. 

Arthur still didn’t look up, focusing on the wild carrots and the venison. He wasn’t much of a cook himself, and despite all of Pearson’s faults, he sure could throw together a stew. “Me an’ Charles. Down the hill, the river’s real close. All kinds of game in the area.”

John swallowed a bite, looking curiously at the tiny leafy bits in the stew. He tried not to think too hard about Charles. He was the elusive type. Little to say, obviously strong, and a valuable member of Dutch’s gang. Arthur obviously respected him quite a bit, and Charles seemed to like Arthur okay. John had seen plenty of their quiet friendliness back in Blackwater. 

He was more than a little jealous. 

“Once I get myself better, maybe you and I could go huntin’.” John suggested. He left the “like we used to” unsaid for fear of driving Arthur to flee the tent. But it still somehow managed to linger in the air between them. He glanced over nervously. 

Arthur who had been eating voraciously, like he always did, was eating much slower. Deliberately. Real interested in his food. And not in John. 

Swallowing hard, John reached down for the canteen Abigail had brought him. He drank deeply to avoid speaking. 

Eventually, Arthur set his empty bowl on the ground and took out a carton of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips, “Thinkin’ we’re gonna do okay here.” He offered one to John.

John took it, and set his last few bites of stew on the crate, nodding his thanks. “You think so?”

“Hope so. It’s a good spot. Safe. Out of the way. Enough food to hunt an’ gather,” Arthur struck a match and lit the cigarette for John, “Haven’t been to town yet. Plannin’ on going and checking it out tomorrow.” Then he lit his own.

John contemplated his condition for a moment, blowing a stream of smoke to one side. He was still weak. His body was probably in a bit of shock over the cold journey down from the mountains. After damn near freezing to death, John didn’t think he’d ever handle cold as well as he used to. It made him feel sore and stiff. 

Despite that he wasn’t too keen on Arthur going into a strange town without another gun with him. Just in case. 

“I know what yer thinkin’. Answer’s no.” Arthur said around his cigarette, shaking his head. He gestured at John, “You can barely walk, and you’re half blind. How much use you gonna be if you can’t shoot straight?” He snorted, “Not like you could before.”

John scoffed back, “If I’m a bad shot, it’s your own fault. You taught me.” He flicked some ashes onto the ground, “‘Sides, I’m a good shot an’ you know it.” He watched Arthur, seeing some mirth in his eyes again. 

“Better be a good shot with what I had to go through to teach ya.” Arthur shook his head. “‘Sides, we’re supposed t’be keepin’ a low profile, you’ll scare off half the town with that face.”

They smoked peaceably for a little while longer, Arthur ribbing him occasionally. John took it. He didn’t mind. Eventually though, Arthur stubbed out his cigarette on the ground. “Better eat the rest of that.” He said, gesturing at the unfinished bowl of stew. “Can’t afford to waste food.”

John had forgotten about it. He stubbed the last of his cigarette on the crate and obediently ate the last few spoonfuls of stew. “Gotta get yer strength back up,” Arthur added, a little quieter. There was something in the lowness of his voice. Something more intimate than friendliness? Worry? Affection?

John put down his spoon, chewing thoughtfully, staring at him. Arthur stared right back, gaze soft. Licking his lips slowly, John swallowed hard and opened his mouth. He wasn’t sure what was gonna come spilling out. 

His guts maybe.

But then Arthur cleared his throat, took the bowl from John’s lap, “Right, well, I’ll take that for the washin’,” and made to duck out of the tent.

“Thank you,” John said quickly, “And Arthur?” 

The blond held the canvas aloft, setting his jaw, “What?” 

“Don’t go into town alone tomorrow? Go with Lenny, Javier, anybody. Please?”

Arthur paused, momentarily distracted by John’s sincerity. His concern for his safety. How he had said “please.” Arthur collected himself, and shook his head, “Lenny ain’t been back to camp yet. He rode ahead with Micah.” 

“What? Why?” John furrowed his brow in confusion. Everyone knew how Micah felt about the kid, he didn’t stop telling people about it. Why would Lenny ride out with him?

“Dutch’s orders.” 

“Well, I’m sure that went off just fine without a hitch,” John grumbled sarcastically. 

“I’m sure it did,” Arthur agreed, “I’m hopin’ that I’ll find them in Valentine tomorrow. We’ll see.” They looked at one another again. For a bit too long. The campfire outside cast orange light under his hat and over his face. He looked like he was contemplating something. 

Suddenly, Arthur cleared his throat and stepped out. The flap of canvas fell down behind him.

Alone now, John leaned over to douse the lantern that Abigail must have lit while he was sleeping. Wincing in pain, he scooted lower on the cot to lie down. He hoped Arthur wouldn’t go into town alone tomorrow. 

He spent an inordinate amount of time thinking how Arthur had actually sat and smoked with him. They hadn’t done that for a long while. He was actually looking him in the eye again. 

_They sure are blue_ , John thought, his cheeks warming as he tucked a hand under his head. Arthur’s eyes had always been blue, of course. Real blue. And if John was being honest with himself, he’d always admired them. 

Sighing, he thought of stolen kisses, and frantic, mutual touches. Groping, more like. He attempted to readjust his legs to ease the discomfort at the groin of his trousers. Quickly, he drew in a sharp hiss of pain.

Reaching under the blankets, he ran his fingers over the bandages around his thigh. It still hurt like a son of a bitch, always in the background of his thoughts. He was still sore in the face as well. His head still felt kinda cloudy. 

But now that he’d eaten, he felt a bit better. Arthur had made sure that he’d been fed. Again. 

_Why?_ John wondered. He’d barely been afforded more than insults for quite some time from Arthur. But now that he was hurt, things were the closest to the way things used to be.

He wanted so badly to tell Arthur how he admired his blue eyes. Tell him how much he wanted to touch him again. To kiss him. To fall asleep in a tangle of limbs together on a bedroll in a cramped hunting tent. 

To talk about that night that had changed everything. 

_“Yer bleedin’.”_

Flames from the nearby fire danced outside, filling the tent with a soft glow. There were some shadows just barely cast over the lower part of the dirty canvas. He could hear voices, and laughter.

He didn’t care. 

John opened up the front of his trousers and went to work finishing what his thoughts had started. He hadn’t abused himself like this since before the wolves. His last moment of completion had been reached with Abigail. When she had revealed what she knew. 

That he fancied men. That he was keen on Arthur. Her warning afterward had tasted bitter. 

_“Arthur Morgan might hurt you.”_

He forged a new moment of release for himself to block out the last. He filled it with blue eyes and big, calloused hands. He filled it with soft wisps of dark blond hair, and subtle smiles. He filled it with as much of Arthur as he possibly could. 

Pressing the back of his free hand to his mouth, John groaned deep within his chest. He thought of strong thighs, dusted with blond hair. He thought of the cock between them. 

The cock that had always surprised him.

He remembered catching brief glimpses once in a while growing up when Arthur had been bathing or changing. He’d seen it hang flaccidly between those legs. Pretty, somewhat modest. Not real small, not real large. 

He remembered when he had first seen it hard. 

_“Sweet Jesus!” John gasped, breaking the kiss to look down at what he’d just pulled from Arthur’s trousers. It was of such a considerable length and girth that John swallowed audibly at the mere sight. He held it gently, rubbing just under the head with his thumb as he looked back up._

_Arthur’s eyes were so blue, standing out against the vibrant green of the trees they stood under. His chin was lowered, and he stared back into John’s eyes. His cheeks were flushed a deep red. He was biting at his lip and he looked...embarrassed?_

John gasped against his knuckles, stroking himself with renewed vigor. He recalled his own shock at how anxious Arthur had been about his size. John supposed that it was because Arthur was habitually such a modest man. It was hard to be modest when your johnson was in someone else’s hand. 

Still, it had been the first time Arthur had let him touch him there. John groaned, trying to keep his bad leg still and relaxed as the rest of his body tensed up. He couldn’t hold back all of a hissed cry of pain and pleasure. 

“A-Arthur…”

***

Arthur tensed, swallowing hard. 

Uncle, Bill and Pearson were all too busy drinking and telling tall tales at the fire to hear. Everyone else was asleep.

But _he’d_ heard it. He knew the quiet sounds all too well. He knew intimately what John Marston sounded like when he was “cleaning his rifle.” He knew _exactly_ what John Marston sounded like when he weakly called out Arthur’s name. 

He felt heat deep in his belly and felt it rising to his face...and other places as well. Forcefully he rolled over in his cot, pulling the blankets over his head. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and uncomfortably adjusted himself. 

_Goddamnit, John Marston…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and/or kudos! Love hearing from you!


End file.
